Let it Rain
by Slide
Summary: PostOotP. The Weasley family has been ripped apart by Voldemort's return and the Ministry's blindness. With the truth out, is reconciliation even possible over pride, on both sides?


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A/N: Yes, whilst I should be focusing on my great BG2 saga, I get distracted by that fifth bloody book coming out in that highly irritatingly compulsive series. I fear I'm being dragged into the world of HP fanfic, and whilst, for now, I only have plans for a few little vignettes like this, who knows where it might end up. For now, I'll just write bits and pieces, character short stories, brief scenes and dialogues – get a feel for the HP world – and hopefully stave off plot bunnies until my other sagas are complete.

In the meantime, here's a piece which came completely out of the blue. Inspiration hit me randomly the other night in the form of Lisa Rourke's excellent art at The Sugar Quill (in particular, obviously, the Percy picture). I've always been very fond of Percy, and his descent in OotP was quite disturbing. Anyone who's read any of my other work will know of my fondness for characters descending into foolish decisions and darkness, mind, so it's all good.

Anyway, to bring this overly self-indulgent introduction to an end, enjoy. It's short and sweet, but it's a start. Maybe some R/H next… ;-)

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Let it Rain

It was raining. Of course. His life had started to seem so melodramatic and ridiculously tragic as of late that for the weather to _not _reflect his mood, not to mirror his emotions – oh, and soak him at the same time – would have been more odd than anything else. It still didn't mean he had to like it.

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It can hardly be a good omen, either, he reasoned as he stepped out of the small copse near the village where the Portkey was secreted. _Rain's a fairly morbid thing. If all was about to go well, I'd probably be enjoying a crisp and warm evening right now_.

This really was rather unfair. Summer wasn't supposed to be the time of perpetually pouring rain, even in Britain. Yet for all that had happened, all he had done and all that was likely to take place, he had no right to really whinge about a spot of rain. He shook his head, drops of water flying off his glasses and allowing him to see a little better, if only for a few seconds as the downpour continued to leave him in a near-blinded state. He would have enchanted them so he didn't have to squint so terribly if it weren't for the fact that he was approaching the village, and such a move would probably go noticed by the inhabitants.

He suffered briefly for his poor eyesight, however, as he took a wrong step and plunged his left foot into a fairly deep, icy puddle. Water seeped through the leather of the boot for a few moments as his foot sank deeper into the mud, then the puddle submerged it entirely. He heard and felt a squelching noise as he yanked his foot free of the mud, and continued his unsteady and now fairly sopping wet way down the small path.

"Bugger," he cursed before he could stop himself, then mentally gave his mouth a kick. No need to curse like that, his mother would say. No, he really should be able to search his intellect enough to find quite a few exclamations to suit his mood other than 'bugger'. It was something his brothers… any of them… would say.

This made him pause for thought for a moment, ignoring how icy cold his foot was becoming, and his eyes settled on a few pinpricks of light a small way away from the outskirts of the village. "Bugger," he repeated, more quietly, almost thoughtfully.

A raindrop dripping down the back of his neck jerked him out of his foolish reverie fairly shockingly, and he almost sprang forwards, determined to carry forwards yet reluctant to reach his destination. He wrapped his heavy coat around himself more tightly, protecting both the warmth of his body and the dryness of the package he carried. It wouldn't do to deliver it sopping wet.

Would it really do to deliver it at all? Ever since the truth had emerged, ever since his great mistake and stupidity had been shown plainly for all the world to see, ever since his carefully crafted illusions and aspirations had come crashing down around him, he had done his best to find a way he could walk down this path with his pride intact. Or, more importantly, find a way he could walk down this path without being sent packing, as he so truly deserved.

He had already done so much they shouldn't forgive him for. He had given them the cold shoulder, sent back the jumper, failed to visit his father when he had been almost at death's door. He had labelled his own family as traitors and fools as he had chosen the easy way out of the situation before him.

And now it seems as if he had been proven wrong. He Who Must Not Be Named _was _back. Harry had been right. The Ministry had been blind; _Fudge _had been blind, and it still wasn't clear what the cost would be for their ignorance. It still wasn't clear how much had been lost as they wasted time believing only what they wanted to and branding all those who believed otherwise as idiots and panic-mongers. Like Dumbledore.

He closed his eyes tight, his soaking wet state the last thing on his mind as he trudged forwards. How could he have doubted him, this man he had respected beyond anyone else for so many years? How could he have agreed with the blind appeaser Fudge and stood against this far wiser and more powerful man? How could he have rejected his own family in favour of the lies?

Though he didn't like the answer, it was quite plain to see. His family had been devoted to fighting He Who Must Not Be Named if he was indeed back. The Ministry had been similarly devoted to ignoring the possibility, not wanting to believe it. To support his family would have placed him in obvious and direct conflict with the Ministry, would have threatened his dreams… his _ambitions_.

His expression contorted into a mixture of a sneer and a squint as he struggled to see whilst still being thoroughly disgusted with himself. The specks of light ahead of his destination were getting larger, and he had left the main body of the village behind, walking alone in the rain.

He shouldn't be here. There was nothing he could say which could make up for choosing easy dreams over hard love. All he _had _to say was a simple 'sorry', and he had the sneaking feeling that wouldn't quite be enough for them. He shouldn't really stay for long. Just drop off the gift and then go.

He'd be damned if he left without giving his sister her birthday present, mind. Even if she sent it back, even if she ripped it up before his very eyes, even if she simply ignored it, it was a move made. It was a hand extended. And although the work to be done, the reconciliation to be done, was all to be his responsibility, his effort… he didn't even know if it was welcome. He didn't even know if they would want him back.

The effort would have to start with Ginny, of course. He wasn't sure he could bring himself to start with his father or mother right then, wasn't sure he could bring himself to make the effort to stretch out to them – wasn't sure he could overcome the fear of their rejecting him. And his brothers… no, they wouldn't even look at him. Fred and George, they were setting out on their own in the world, and doubtless had no desire to make time for him. Ron was proud and doubtless angry after the letter – in some ways, of all his brothers, Ron was the one he had maligned the most. After all, he hadn't taken part in an effort to get Bill's best friend wrongfully convicted of a crime, had he?

Shame hit him briefly, and he lowered his head, keeping his gaze fixed on the path ahead of him so he wasn't marking the distance between him and The Burrow with every step anymore, merely making sure he didn't plunge his foot into another puddle.

No, it should start with Ginny. The fact that her birthday fell at such a convenient time was… was a sign in itself, an omen. Like this morbid rain. He had always been closer to her than the others. As the youngest, and a girl, she had been the brunt of teasing just as he, the hard-working one, had been – though she _had _had the benefit of overly-protective Weasley brothers to sort of balance that. At the very least, he could hope that she would be sympathetic towards him.

That was really all he could count on right then: sympathy, because he had very little tangible or convincing to offer them. Sympathy, and a hope that their love for family was deeper than his had proven to be.

Before he knew it, he was there, at the house. From the sounds of laughter within as he stepped up the driveway, celebrations were in full swing, his mother probably setting out a full and lavish meal for his sister's fifteenth birthday.

As he reached the door, he hesitated for a long moment, before side-stepping and peering through one of the small windows at the front of the house. They were all there, everyone save himself, seated at the great dining room table, the expected meal spread out before them. George was talking them through what seemed like some prank or – with the new, respectable business – design achievement he and Fred had achieved lately, gesticulating wildly in a most familiar way. Their mother was trying to look disapproving but seeming to fail, and the rest of the table was in uproarious laughter.

He shook his head, almost backing away from the window until he noticed something. Above the table, ticking away merrily, was the Weasley clock, all of the hands on it pointed at 'Home'. Even his own.

He took a sharp intake of breath, now actually stepping aside. They didn't seem to have noticed, and the longer he lingered, the more likely they were to. He raised a hand to hit the doorbell, then hesitated once more, glancing through the window.

They were all… happy. Together. A family. And he wanted to join them, but knew it couldn't be done tonight. No, if he were to walk in tonight, there would be arguments, sobbing, emotions running high, and it wouldn't even go well. He would be trying to force himself back into a situation he had wrenched himself out of, and matters hadn't healed enough for him to simply slip into place once more. Indeed, it would be best if he didn't bother them that night.

But he would not just walk away. At the very least, he was going to extend a hand to them.

Reaching into his overly large coat, he extracted the small present he had bought for Ginny and placed it on the porch, just out of the drops of the destructive rain. Then, although it was a big risk and could cause the scene he was trying to avoid, he hit the doorbell and turned to run.

Lurking in the shadows at the bottom of the front garden, safely out of sight, a response took a few seconds, as expected. There would have to be the obvious argument as to who would answer the door, Ginny as the youngest being nominated first but then exempt due to it being her birthday, Ron being next in line but protesting loudly and vehemently, Fred and George abstaining due to no longer being inhabitants of The Burrow and, as expected, the figure that eventually emerged at the doorway was that of his mother.

She looked around quickly, evidently surprised and mildly annoyed, probably presuming it to be pranksters, before noticing the small package at her feet. With obvious bewilderment she leant down to pick it up, looking at the label as she straightened up.

As she read, it seemed as if the rain itself was stopping, and despite his hiding place of dark and bushes, he suddenly felt very exposed. His mother's eyes scanned the darkness almost furtively, desperately seeking him out, and although they ran over his hiding place, she did not see him.

After what seemed like an eternity of searching, she eventually gave in, turning reluctantly and closing the door behind her. He let out a breath he hadn't even been aware of holding, then, after hesitating for a few seconds, turned and set off down the path he had come along.

He had been wrong, he realised. Even this quiet intrusion of the night would leave its mark, its hiccup, its emotion and its anger and pain. For a moment he regretted it, but the time was right to stretch his hand forwards a little and test the waters. There was discord in his home, discord because of him… but it was not the time for him to be a part of his home during that discord. There were many bridges to mend, much reconciliation to be done, and whilst the burden fell mostly on his shoulders… effort would have to be made on both sides.

Walking down the path as it turned into a road and led to the village, he felt it begin to rain even harder, if possible soaking him even more than before. He cursed quietly, then shook his head and smiled a wry and fairly unsuited smile, throwing his hands into the air with an demeanour of resignation.

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Let it rain, Percy thought, leaving The Burrow behind him as he strode onwards. 


End file.
